


Row, Row, Row Your Boat

by omg_okimhere



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:24:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/pseuds/omg_okimhere
Summary: Just more silly crack based on prompts from the fandom.





	

“For fuck’s sake, man, PULL!”

 Bennet Drake had never been a drill sergeant, however his regimental past was definitely coming to the fore.  His own strokes are hard and regular, doing the lion’s share of propelling the sleek shell down the Thames.  On both sides of the river, the wives and sweethearts of the Metropolitan Police force line the banks, waving the pennant colours of their favored crew in the First Annual Policeman’s Pull.

“Don’t they have rowing in America?” Bennet shouts at Jackson in disgust, as his bare shoulders ripple and role in time with the oarlocks.  From his position in the aft seat, he glances back at the bevy of boats biting through  the water.  The H Division trio is ahead in the race, but not by much.  A cheer goes up from one knot of spectators, as a second craft begins to close the gap.

Letting one of his paddles troll uselessly, the doctor pulls a flask from his waistband and tips the contents into his mouth.  At that moment, the hull slaps into a trough, sending some of the spirituous liquid down his chin and onto his naked chest.  “Who elected you coxswain anyway?” he complains to Drake, wiping his mouth on his forearm. 

Bennet is beginning to grow short of breath.  “I rowed with the Nile All-Water Rats,” he growls, shaking his head to fling a drop of sweat off the tip of his nose.  “We were regimental champs.”  His shoulders are beginning to ache, but he refuses to show it.  “Do your part, Jackson!” he barks angrily.

The American glowers, but picks up his handles and begins to put some muscle into it.

Up in the prow, Reid is missing the rhythm, too busy tracking the overtaking vessel.  Across the whitecaps the threesome from K Division pulls alongside, with the impossibly-muscled Jedediah Shine oozing hatred from every pore.  Behind him, the equally bare-torsoed Albert Flight works hard, hiding behind his fall of chestnut hair so as not to meet the eyes of the men he betrayed.  Augustus Dove completes the team, though his contribution falls more in the realm of brains than brawn. 

“You motley crew canna do it!”  sneers Jedediah at Reid and company, giving  a mighty reach and pull that sends their own nose surging ahead. 

“Inspector!  With me!” calls out Drake.

Reid tries to pick up the tempo, but finds one of his oars grating in its socket.  Quickly he re-seats it, wiping his splayed hands across the front of his already grease-streaked singlet.  The thin cotton undershirt conceals the scars that contour his back, but the deeply cut U-shaped neck and armholes leave plenty for room for his pecs and biceps to bulge with exertion.

“Stroke!  Stroke!  Stroke!”  Bennet’s lungs explode with the command.

The men of Leman Street call their cadence, and like a knife through butter, the H Division hull slices its path.  Past Shine and his men.  Past the final buoy.  And past the ribbon that marks the finish, to become Whitechapel’s Champions.

 

THE END

 


End file.
